Tricycled
by boys with their butters crusted,
shop-knotted,
pub-signed, and chapel-stepped,
church-fashioned
parishioners Sunday bested,
arraigned
in visages so long procrastinated.
In
door-step scrubbed consanguinity,
with
matching windowsills glossily painted,
stone
and mortar souls senescent,
insufflated
into curtained parlours and suffocated.
Tiny,
resurgent slag-walled gardens,
above
scarf-erranded mothers bagging
shop
queues with their gossip listed,
brought
tutt-tutted home, in rapture bated.
Souls,
sprig-cobbled and re-leathered,
red
letter boxed and phone box fired,
fenestrated
in sisterhooded whispers,
damp-knickered, and grey-hair gartered.
Seesaw
poised and peopled nicely,
precisely
homed and personated,
Band
of Hope on the one hand, on the other,
public
bar smoked pints and blather.
Street
light, slingshot, black tooth caries,
gutter
drained and Noah inundated,
sodden
fields and rotting detritus,
with
blackberry-reddened fingers much inveighed.
Rough
stoned lanes of the other houses,
in
unlit rough dark times inhabited,
hush
breathed and hand in hand these others,
village
stirred to dark-thicken the gravy.
A
lad in this multi-cellular nursery,
outgrows
restraint and bursting ranges,
mimicked
in reflecting multi-mirrors,
a
village villager must be envisaged.
Railing
stick rattled, can kicked,
kicked
can, can kicked, and
tricycled,
scootered, and Sunday schooled,
all
set in stone but with a rubber soul.
From
the spring spawn well,
to
a cold, curled bed,
from
end to end, when all is said,
envisaged
the village in which we dwell.
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